


By Firelight

by Thistlerose



Category: Chronicles of Prydain - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gen Fic, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Princess Eilonwy during the months between <i>The Black Cauldron</i> and <i>The Castle of Llyr.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By Firelight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quettaser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quettaser/gifts).



> Many thanks to my kindly beta reader!

On winter nights they sat around the hearth while Dallben read to them from _The Book of Three_. He read true stories about the men and women who, whether warlord or peasant farmer, hero or villain, had, in some way, shaped the history of Prydain. Coll was often absent; having heard the stories before, having lived some of them, and being rather modest about his adventure-filled past, he preferred to retire to his room once the household tasks were completed for the evening. But for Eilonwy, many of the stories were new, and the ones she had heard before were worth hearing again.

Huddled under a coarse woolen blanket, her legs tucked up against her chest, she listened with fascination. Some of the people in Dallben’s tales were her own ancestors. Achren had told her plenty of stories about the enchantresses of Llyr, their consorts and ministers, and – of course – their vast treasure trove. Watching the flicker of firelight on the wall behind Dallben, Eilonwy recalled the greedy gleam in her aunt’s eyes as she’d spoken of luxurious furs, gold chalices, ornamental swords with jewel-encrusted hilts, and all manner of magical objects. _One day, my girl, they will all be yours,_ Achren had said, and Eilonwy had snickered behind her hand because, even as a young girl, she’d understood that when Achren said _yours,_ what she meant was _mine._

Eilonwy wondered about Achren sometimes. Prince Gwydion had said that she hadn’t been in Spiral Castle when it fell, but he didn’t know where she had gone. It gave Eilonwy a queer, prickly feeling – like ants running all up and down her arms and legs – to think that Achren was alive somewhere, probably plotting something unpleasant. Eilonwy told herself that she had little to fear; she was under Dallben’s protection, after all. _And_ she had a sword of her own. It wasn’t as fine as Taran’s, and no one had girded it on _her_ – she’d merely taken it from the limp hand of one of King Morgant’s fallen warriors – but it was sharp and pointy, and that was the important thing.

She wondered about her kinfolk, the ones who’d given her to Achren in the first place years ago, so she could learn to be an enchantress. She’d once told Taran that they must have forgotten all about her, and she still believed that to be true. She didn’t mind being forgotten. Even when she and Taran bickered, she preferred Caer Dallben to any other place in Prydain, even Caer Dathyl with its soaring towers and echoing banquet halls.

But she was curious, and on nights when Dallben’s stories included the House of Llyr, she found herself longing for the sea, for the crash of waves, the cold sand between her toes, and the tang of salt on her tongue. It had been a long time since she’d been to the sea, such a long time, in fact, that she could no longer recall who had brought her there the last time. Surely not Achren. Her aunt couldn’t abide animals, and in Eilonwy’s memory, the shore had been teeming with life, from screaming gulls to the little crabs that washed up with the purple seaweed. Even the waves had seemed alive to her, their foamy crests like a team of white horses galloping toward shore. The White Horses of Llyr, as they were referred to in song and story.

At such times, her hand would go, often unconsciously, to the little golden sphere that she carried always. Like the delicate silver crescent she wore at her throat, she had no memory of who had given the bauble to her, or when. She secretly hoped it had been her parents because she was very fond of it, and Achren had never been one for giving.

She wondered occasionally if she ought to send her kinfolk some sort of message, simply to remind them that she, well, existed. She didn’t know where they were, though she imagined Kaw could find them if he set his mind to it. He was an awfully clever crow, even if he was a bit of a rascal, and she did sometimes get the sense that something about her, Taran, and Gurgi amused him terribly. No, she was sure he could find them. The question was, did she really want him to?

She wasn’t so sure, and her uncertainty troubled her. It wasn’t that she resented her kinfolk for handing her over to Achren. Her aunt, after all, could be quite charming when it suited her; perhaps they hadn’t realized how horrid and spiteful she really was beneath the frosty beauty. Nor did it bother her especially that none of them had attempted to seek _her_ out in all the long years since. They could have, if they’d wanted to. She supposed her parents might have, had they still been alive. Because really, Spiral Castle hadn’t exactly been well hidden. If an Assistant Pig-Keeper could find his way there, then surely anyone…

Thinking about Taran always brought her back to herself. Whenever she became immersed in memory or wistful speculation, all she had to do was look up and find his face, and there she would be, back on the hearthstones of Caer Dallben where she belonged. She wasn’t sure why he had this effect on her, and she was quite certain she didn’t like it _all_ of the time, but, well…

Eilonwy was certain she knew what lay behind Taran’s dreamy expression as _he_ listened to Dallben. He was recalling his own adventures, all the times he’d fought at Gwydion’s side, against Cauldron Born or Huntsmen or whomever. He was imagining his own exploits finding their way into _The Book of Three_ , and while Eilonwy would never admit it aloud – certainly not to Taran – she hoped that they would someday. It struck her as fair. He _was_ a hero. Well, on his way to being one. Perhaps. He’d certainly acted heroically – for an Assistant Pig-Keeper – at times. Certainly when they’d all gone after Arawn’s magic cauldron that autumn.

Something inside her twisted oddly when she thought about the ways in which Taran had changed since then. She couldn’t quite explain it, but he _had_ changed. It had something to do with Adaon’s brooch, and his rivalry with Ellidyr, and the sacrifices he had been willing to make. It made her want to do strange things, like apologize after snapping at him, even when he deserved it. The snapping, that was, not the apology. Or tell him he was doing something well, even when it wasn’t necessarily true. _Very_ puzzling.

 _Taran of Caer Dallben,_ she would think with a little sigh. And then her gaze would slip over to Gurgi’s upturned face. His eyes were always wide with interest, and bright even in the dying firelight, and he often had a hairy little hand pressed to his mouth. Which stories did he like the best? Eilonwy wondered. Stories of beasts? Or of men? Did he listen in hope of some mention of his own people, whoever they might be? Or had he accepted his uniqueness in the world? She longed to ask him, though the idea gave her an uncomfortable feeling as well. It would be like … like dumping a bucket of water over someone’s head.

Anyway, it seemed to Eilonwy that, whatever his origins, Gurgi had found his place at Caer Dallben. Just as she had.

Perhaps.

After Dallben closed _The Book of Three_ and set it carefully on one of the chamber’s sturdier shelves, Eilonwy rose with Taran and Gurgi and went off to her straw pallet to sleep and dream. She slept so much better at Caer Dallben than she ever had at Spiral Castle, perhaps because there were no armed guards clanking about in the corridors below her chamber, perhaps because she spent the day working hard in the scullery and the orchards. Or perhaps, she sometimes thought fancifully, straw and a woolen blanket really were more comfortable than feather-stuffed mattresses – though neither suited her half so well as roots and rocks.

Maybe it was just as well her kinfolk never sought her out, she thought as she curled onto her side, drawing the blanket up to her shoulder. She wasn’t much of a princess. Nor, she thought, as she drew the bauble from her pocket and set it beside her on the straw, was she much of an enchantress. She stroked her fingertips over the golden sphere’s smooth surface and was rewarded with a glimmer of light, faint as the dawn’s first light, but warm as a smile. She lifted her fingers and a heartbeat later the light was gone.

In the perfect darkness she could hear the wind tugging at the farmhouse’s thatched roof, rattling the bare boughs of the apple trees. She felt very small, curled up on her pallet, and quite alone, even though she knew her dear friends and guardians were close by. She wished that she _did_ know more spells. A sword was all very well and good, but it wasn’t much use if your enemies weren’t right there in front of you. Which usually meant going to them, or waiting for them to come to you. Either way…

Sleep always overtook her before she became too engrossed in such thoughts. When she slept, she often dreamed of a ruined castle jutting up from the sea, its corridors empty but for the echoes of those who’d passed through them long ago, and the distant call of the waves.


End file.
